


Terms of their Arrangement

by thisprettywren



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: BDSM, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-11
Updated: 2011-03-11
Packaged: 2017-10-16 20:59:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/169293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisprettywren/pseuds/thisprettywren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blatant PWP. Voice kink. Handcuffs. Orgasm denial. You know, just the average Tuesday night at Lestrade's flat.</p><p>Written for <a href="http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/6487.html?thread=32246103#t32246103">this prompt</a> over at sherlockbbc_fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Terms of their Arrangement

He knew it was wrong—breaking every rule in the book, really—but he’d seen the man solve a case that had been stumping the Yard for weeks while crashed out with the shakes on his fourth day of detox. The rules seemed arbitrary and pedestrian by comparison.

Sherlock Holmes was _intriguing_ , and Lestrade could be forgiven for being drawn in by him, recently-separated and, yes, lonely as he was.

Letting him move into his flat, though. That was probably taking things a bit too far. Best word not get around about it down at the Yard.

Besides which, Lestrade liked their arrangement. Liked it, perhaps, a little too much.

Even so, when he returned from a long shift at half one on a Tuesday morning (not an urgent case but a puzzling one, a bit of embezzlement and money laundering but there was a piece missing yet) to discover the bloody man standing in the middle of the sofa and thrashing away at his violin like it were—

Christ, he was too knackered even to think of an analogy.

“Sherlock,” he said, hearing the exhaustion in his own voice. “I’m done in, and I do have neighbours. Neighbours with actual _jobs,_ for which they need actual sleep.”

“Mm, yes,” Sherlock said, scarcely even glancing in Lestrade’s direction, not breaking the rhythm of his bow across the strings.

“ _Sherlock_ ," he said again, in his most authoritative voice. “Don’t think I won’t have you arrested for disturbing the peace.”

Sherlock lowered the violin at that and turned those pale eyes full on Lestrade’s face. “ _Would_ you,” he said coolly, tilting his head to one side.

Ah.

It was going to be like _that_ , then.

“Without a second’s hesitation.”

Sherlock hopped down from the sofa, setting the violin carefully to one side. Two long strides and he was standing just inches away, pale fingers snaking around to his pocket, extracting Lestrade’s own handcuffs.

“With these?” Sherlock asked, voice low, and Lestrade found himself swallowing as he nodded. “Of course.” One graceful move and he was practically pressed up against Lestrade’s back, hands ghosting down his arms as he snicked the cuffs closed around Lestrade’s own wrists, trapping his hands behind him. “Like this,” he said, bending his neck so that his lips were brushing against Lestrade’s ear, voice low and breathy.

Lestrade felt his eyes fall closed, forced them open again. Sherlock liked to be able to see Lestrade’s eyes, watch him come apart, and he wanted— well, he wanted Sherlock to get what he wanted.

“Yes.” Sherlock practically growled the word and it sent a shiver of anticipation straight down Lestrade’s spine to his groin. He could feel the increased pressure in the front of his trousers and was glad Sherlock was standing behind him.

 __Not that he wouldn’t know, of course._  
_

“You might not take me in right away,” Sherlock was saying, his breath just barely ruffling Lestrade’s hair, spreading warmth against the side of his face. Sherlock wasn’t even touching him, and Lestrade had to fight the urge to press back against him.

“No? What else might I do with you?” Lestrade asked, his own voice a bit breathless.

“Mmm. Well, you know that my fingers are quite… _agile_ ,” he said, dipping his voice even lower on the last word, and Lestrade bit his lip and suppressed a groan, “and I’d slip the cuffs in no time. You’d have to secure them further, perhaps taping them together. Like that, I’d be entirely helpless.”

Oh, _god_. He didn’t quite manage to swallow the moan that forced its way up from his throat, that time.

“You could take me over to the sofa,” Sherlock went on. “Press my hips up against the back of it and force my head down onto the seat. With a hand on the back of my neck I’d find it quite challenging enough just to breathe. I wouldn’t be able to stop you at all when you forced my feet apart and spread me open.”

Lestrade shivered. It was wrong, but _fuck_ if he wasn’t hard, if he hadn’t just felt his hips jerk forward, just a little. He shifted, the fabric of his trousers uncomfortably tight, the entirely _wrong_ kind of pressure, not at all what he needed.

Sherlock hooked one finger through the chain of the cuffs, just as a reminder, and shifted so that he was speaking into Lestrade’s other ear.

“I’d be ready for you,” he breathed, “so ready. You could tease me, work me open slowly with your fingers. Or just press straight in, without preparation. I wouldn’t be able to stop you.”

Lestrade was practically trembling with the effort of holding himself still. Almost without meaning to his fingers reached back and cupped Sherlock through the front of his own trousers, more a nudge than anything. He felt Sherlock’s erection jump at the contact, felt the catch of his breath warm against the back of his neck.

Sherlock pressed his mouth against the spot in Lestrade’s throat where his pulse was visible; not a kiss, just a point of contact, lips brushing lightly against the skin as he spoke, warm and a little rough.

“Like that,” he said, and the baritone seemed to run straight through Lestrade to his groin. He could feel the damp patch in the front of his trousers beginning to spread. “You could touch me, however you wanted. Take me hard or keep me on edge for hours. I’d need it, _beg_ you for it.”

“Oh, fuck, _Sherlock_ ,” Lestrade said, feeling the tightness coiling in his groin, his hips starting to jerk in little stuttering movements, seeking friction. He was going to come, right there, he was going to—

Suddenly the heat of Sherlock’s breath was gone from his neck.

“Stop,” came the command, and Lestrade moaned in frustration, biting his lip. There was a jerk on the cuffs and he dropped to his knees, shaking.

“ _Bugger_ , I’m so— Sherlock, don’t do this,” he said, hoping it didn’t sound as much like begging as it felt. He should have known, but somehow he always _hoped_. More fool he.

More fool and he loved it, God help him.

Sherlock pushed two fingers into Lestrade’s mouth, pressing harshly against his tongue, and Lestrade groaned around them. “No more talking,” Sherlock ordered, and he fell silent.

“Right, then,” Sherlock said, his voice a little louder and pitched just slightly higher than it had been when he was practically moaning into Lestrade’s ear, “where was I?”

He took the three steps back to the sofa and picked up the violin, swung it to his chin, and locking his pale eyes on Lestrade’s, began to play.

It was a fast piece, almost frantic. Sherlock kept Lestrade pinned with his gaze the whole time he played, scarcely even blinking. Sherlock’s eyes were almost imperceptibly darker with lust—fuck, he _wanted_ Lestrade, as if that weren’t evident enough from the fact that Sherlock’s own trousers were bulging a bit in the front—and Lestrade found himself caught up in the sensation of the melody, the rhythmic movement of Sherlock’s body, his own breath coming faster as it climbed toward its peak.

He was aching with it when Sherlock finally set the violin aside and came over to kneel in front of him. He leaned forward the little bit necessary to bring his mouth against Lestrade’s own, at the same time pressing the palm of his hand against the zip of Lestrade’s trousers and _hell_ , it was all he could do not to buck against it, to wait for the permission he was sure was coming.

“Now,” Sherlock breathed, low and ragged, and just like that Lestrade spilled himself, shuddering against the heel of Sherlock’s hand and groaning into his mouth, Sherlock’s other hand gripping his shoulder to help hold him upright.

When he was finally finished Sherlock helped him to his feet (balance always tricky with his arms pinned behind him, he never had got good at this) and went to retrieve the key. Lestrade made his way on shaky legs over to the sofa, sank back against it gratefully.

“The secretary’s brother,” Sherlock said conversationally as he unlocked the handcuffs and rubbed Lestrade’s shoulders.

“What’s that?”

“Your missing piece. I’d check the secretary’s brother. You’ll want to get right back to the Yard, I’d imagine,” Sherlock said, “get the boring paperwork bits out of the way before he has a chance to leave the country.”

“Right,” Lestrade said, rubbing a hand over his face wearily. “I’ll just go change, then, and call for a car.”

“You’ll go _now_ ,” Sherlock said, and Lestrade looked at him. He could feel his release, cooling and sticky in his pants.

It was a challenge.

“Now it is, then,” Lestrade answered, matching his tone to Sherlock’s.

He had a change of pants and trousers in his desk, he thought as he pulled his coat on again. He’d clean himself up there.

Sherlock would be able to tell, of course. Probably knew about them already, come to that.

“Later, then,” Lestrade said, feeling his mouth beginning to twist with a smirk, and saw an answering expression on Sherlock’s face.

Sherlock would punish him for it.

He was counting on it.


End file.
